


Homefires

by alby_mangroves



Series: Written fanworks [37]
Category: Billy Elliot (2000)
Genre: 1980s, 1990s, 3+1, Childhood Friends, Crossdressing, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Slice of Life, Vignette, Yuletide 2020, canon compliant underage drinking, canon compliant use of casual homophobic slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves
Summary: The three times Michael came to dinner and the one time Tony did.
Relationships: Michael Caffrey & Tony Elliot, Michael Caffrey/Billy Elliot, Minor Michael Caffrey/OMC
Series: Written fanworks [37]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1181939
Comments: 37
Kudos: 87
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Homefires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coricomile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/gifts).



### 1986

It wasn’t anything specific that caught Michael’s eye, a shadow moving past the window, something familiar in the gait, enough to pull his attention away from the telly.

He expected a knock but it didn’t come, so he got up and opened the door and Tony Elliot was there, looking a bit sheepish with his fist up and hanging in mid air. Michael hadn’t seen Tony since Billy had left for London last year, except in a passing-by sort of way, on the way in, on the way out. It was hard to miss anyone’s comings and goings in the colliery village, living on top of each other as they all did.

“Hi Tony,” Michael said, and Tony looked like someone who’d just been punched but was still in those immediately-after surprise seconds where he didn’t feel it yet. They stood there a long moment, considering each other. “What d’you want?” Michael finally asked. In the background, a happy orchestra played on, and Fred Astaire was putting down the top hat, mussing up his white tie, dancing in his tails.

Tony looked past him to the telly, and Michael turned aside a little to let him. They watched it together from the doorway for a bit, and Michael wasn’t sure why he said it, but it felt important to acknowledge that something out of the ordinary was happening here, even if he didn’t quite know what it was. 

”Want to come in and watch with me? Your mam’s favourite, was ol’ twinkletoes.”

“Oh yeah?” Tony said, an unreadable look on his face. “What do you know about my mam?” He was still as stone, and working in the pit all day long had made him into a big man so Michael held his breath and watched warily, but Tony’s shoulders relaxed so Michael nodded instead of ducking.

“Billy told me,” he said, waiting for Tony to explain himself.

Tony watched the telly for a bit longer, and he looked so lost that Michael’s heart squeezed a little, and for some reason it got him thinking about Billy all alone in London. Then he remembered that Billy had left them all behind and Michael had no business feeling bad for Billy in his fancy dancing school with his fancy new dancing mates when he could feel bad for himself instead.

Someone walked past on Alnwick Street, soles clacking on the rough pavement, and they both startled, Tony coughing into his collar and looking around, his big hand pale and tight on the rickety green handrail Michael’s dad had been meaning for years to tighten up or hammer down, or whatever the hell people did to fix loose handrails. 

“You comin’ in or what?”

Tony looked at Michael like he’d grown a second head, and shook his head, huffing a laugh. “Nah. Heard the music from the street, and—” He seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Is your dad home?”

“Nah, he’s at the pub with my mam if you want him.”

“Oh. Nah, you’re all right,” Tony said, and it was almost comical, the way he looked like he honestly had no idea on God’s green earth what was about to come out of his mouth but he was still just letting it happen. “What about your sister?"

Michael narrowed his eyes. “She’s out with her boyfriend. They’re getting married next year,” he added, because what the fuck was Tony about, asking after Michael’s own sister. “What’s this about?”

Tony was starting to look desperate. “You had supper?” Michael shook his head, completely confused now. It was no consolation that Tony looked just as confused, the two of them in the Caffreys’ green doorway, blinking at each other in the waning autumn afternoon.

“Well, come on then,” Tony said, turning abruptly and marching across the street to his house. When Michael didn’t move, Tony glared at him like he’d grown a third head on top of the second one. “Hurry up.” Michael went back in to turn off the telly and grab his jean jacket because what else was there to do.

He went in, and there was Tony and Billy’s nan, sitting at the table with a cup of tea, soup bubbling away on the stove behind her, the yellow lampshade above the table making the kitchen glow with warmth.

“Billy?” Billy’s nan said, her eyes hopeful and round, and Michael went over slowly and held out his hand to her. 

“Grandma, it’s Michael,” Tony said. “Michael Caffrey from across the way.”

“Oh,” she said, voice wavering with uncertainty, and Michael gently squeezed her thin, papery hand. 

Across the hall, the toilet flushed, and that was Billy’s dad coughing over the sound of running water.

On the bench, Tony was fiddling with the rabbit ears on top of a small and battered old Sony set which Michael had never seen before. Maybe the Elliots were doing better now. And then there was ol’ twinkletoes, the vaudeville sounding a little tinny, and the picture a little grainy, but unmistakable in its jaunty, carefree swing.

Billy’s nan’s face went from confusion to delight, and she turned to watch, smiling and clapping along. Michael sat down at the table, and a moment later, Jackie was there too, lighting a cigarette and nodding at him, not looking surprised to see him at all.

Behind them, Tony started ladling soup into bowls.

### 1988

Michael knocked and Tony opened the door, and for a moment the bottom of Michael’s stomach dropped out, shocked at the uncanniness.

“Where’d you get that?” Michael said, eyeing Tony’s gleaming plastic skin-colour apron up and down. On the apron, Tony was wearing a scarlet bra and suspender belt, with lace trim round the outside. 

“What, this old thing,” Tony said, hamming it up, cocking his hip. When he turned around, the dainty bow at his back dipped and bobbed.

“It’s definitely your colour,” Michael laughed, fake to his own ears, his face feeling red hot and his hands clammy. Tony didn’t seem to notice; he made like he was going to flick Michael with his tea towel and Michael danced away. 

He sat and watched Tony prepare dinner and serve his nan and his dad, and it was amazing how much Tony had stepped into the role that Billy had left behind - the role he’d probably have considered beneath him if he hadn’t been forced by circumstance. Maybe that was an overly simplistic view. Maybe Michael was overthinking it. Maybe he just missed Billy in the kitchen, sitting on the bench and being stupid.

After they’d eaten, the little telly went on and Billy’s nan was humming along to the music of some old movie, a glass of sharp-smelling sherry in her hand, while Jackie, already half asleep in his chair, had a content little grin on his face and his hand on one of two bottles of beer Michael had brought over with him from his dad’s stash; not like his dad was going to need it at his mam’s work’s Christmas party, they’d probably have fancy drinks there like champagne or wine in bottles or something.

Billy would be home tomorrow for Christmas, and Michael was equal parts excited and dreading it. They’d been writing to each other all these years but it had gotten harder to put important things in letters. Things that were less about time passing and the weather and school and more about life. Last Christmas, Michael’s family had gone to visit his grandparents and missed Billy’ visit home altogether. Michael had been growing like a weed in the past year or two. How much had he really changed? And worse, what if Billy had changed and outgrown Michael? What if he didn’t like Michael at all, anymore? 

He was off in another world of downward spiralling friendship nightmares and not paying attention when Tony handed him a glass of beer so of course it went all over him, down his jumper and almost down his pants. He jumped up and held it out from his chest but it had already soaked through and it was freezing fucking cold.

“Ah shit,” Tony said, fussing with the tea towel, fluttering it around but not achieving much of anything to clean up the mess.

“Leave it,” Michael said, hissing each time Tony dabbed at him, making the cold fabric touch him in a new place. “I’ll duck home and get changed,” he said, but Tony was already pushing him into the bathroom.

“Whassappened,” Jackie yelled out from his chair. “Whasswrong?”

“Naught’s wrong dad, you’re all right, go back to sleep! Get in here, Jesus Christ. I’ll bring you something dry. Fuck. Sorry. Fuck.”

It was freezing cold in the bathroom too, even more noticeable now that he was half wet, so Michael peeled off his wet jumper and had his equally wet shirt up and over his head and his hands up behind his back with his powder blue bra strap half undone when Tony walked back in. 

And then walked straight back out again.

Michael stopped breathing. Tony’s shadow was still under the door, unmoving.

“Fuck,” Tony said quietly, on the other side of the door. He seemed to steel himself, the shadow shifting a little. Turning around. “Okay. I’m coming in now.”

But Tony didn’t so much come in as shove his whole arm through the door with clothes dangling off his hand, while hiding his face with the other hand, still holding the wet tea towel, so Michael grabbed the flannel shirt and jumper Tony was holding out, and changed into them, then quickly went back out before he lost his nerve.

The telly was still on, Tony’s nan was still humming along to an old Christmas movie, and Tony was at the sink, washing up.

Michael sat carefully on the edge of the chair and reached for his refilled glass, sitting on the wiped-down table.

“Definitely your colour,” Tony said, and laughed when Michael choked on his beer.

### 1990

It was a bit chilly out, and Michael tightened his coat as they left Tuxedo Junction, the pump of music and a blast of body heat following them out the door and past the reach of the strobes. They’d all tripped out of the disco in a happy, drunken mess of limbs and failing hair gel; Mel and Dave were up ahead lighting their smokes and Jimmy had his arm around him and it was nice, though they’d probably have to give it up in a minute when they hit the well-lit downtown if they didn’t want their heads bashed in.

“Here, gorgeous,” Jimmy murmured into Michael’s ear and held up his silver Zippo, flicking it to life so Michael could cup his hands around the flame and light his smoke. He sucked it deep into his lungs, feeling the scotch and cokes sloshing around inside, held Jimmy’s gaze and fluttered his mascara-heavy lashes, closing in for a chaste kiss. Jimmy kissed him back, laughing, eyes crinkling with it. There was a little silver showing at his temples.

“Such a little flirt,” Jimmy said, indulgent, and Michael allowed himself to be pulled in for a proper kiss that had them both panting a little when they pulled up for air, Michael’s face feeling raw from Jimmy’s beard coming in. Jimmy smiled at him and pulled Michael along down the street in a half-sauced hobble, dropping his arm to sit snugly around Michael’s waist.

“Michael! Oi, Michael!”

Michael turned too quickly and Jimmy’s arms tightened around him for a moment, steadying him, then dropped away. Michael tried very hard not to sway.

Tony was jogging up, then slowing as he came closer. “Thought it was you,” he said, like Michael with his lacy blouse and his eyelines and his painted nails was the odd thing to see outside of a Newcastle discoteque on a Saturday night.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said, and watched Tony clock everything about Michael’s outfit, his kiss-red mouth, his sweating make-up, and Jimmy, staying thankfully quiet right at Michael’s back.

Tony nodded, and he and Jimmy were eyeing each other off, appraising.

“This is my friend, Jimmy,” Michael said, feeling giggly and surreal and regretting the last couple of rounds. “And this is my neighbour from Everington, Tony.”

“You’re drunk,” Tony said, and Michael laughed; he couldn’t help it.

“A bit, yeah.”

“You’re too young,” Tony said, then looked accusingly at Jimmy. “He’s only seventeen, he’s too young.”

“Tony, I’ve been smashing dad’s collection since I was a bairn and you know it,” Michael said mildly. Oh, the hypocrisy.

“You’re still a bairn, you little shite, what the hell are you doing out here, drinking, carrying on in a club.”

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Jimmy said, and that had Tony’s back up, had him going from a tense but cordial chat to a punch-up in waiting, like a lit match held to a line of powder.

“Who the fuck are you, you don’t even know him, and I can talk any way I fucking like.”

“Not to _me_ you can’t.” Michael said, still mild, but the stone wall in his voice was enough to have Tony pulling back, paying attention. “You’re not my big brother.”

Tony looked like he’d been slapped and shook his head, looking away, hands deep in his pockets. For a long, tense moment, Michael really couldn’t see how they could walk away from this, but then Tony’s shoulders deflated, and Jimmy stepped back a little, and it was back to a tense but cordial chat, after all.

“I’m gonna catch a bus home, want to come with?” Tony said, and Michael could recognise a conciliatory gesture when he saw it, even when it was posturing and still wearing top-to-toe layers of blue denim in this year of our lord nineteen-ninety. He turned to Jimmy and pecked him on the cheek.

“I’ll call you, yeah?”

“Make sure you do, gorgeous,” Jimmy said, and reeled him in with an easy smile, hugged him close and kissed him, and Michael felt Tony’s eyes on them but Tony didn’t make a sound. “Get home safe,” Jimmy said. Tony tipped his chin up.

“Yeah, alright,” Michael said, and let him go with a smile and a wave. They were on the bus before Tony cleared his throat.

“I always thought— never mind.”

“You always thought what.”

Tony sighed. “You and our Billy, you know.”

“No, I don’t know,” Michael said, feeling petulant. “What?”

“You fucking know.”

It was Michael’s turn to sigh and look away. “Not for my lack of trying,” he said, and looked out the window at rushing-by cars and houses and traffic lights, and anything at all.

“Oh,” Tony said, fingers tightening on the empty bus seat in front of them.

“Would you have minded if we did?” Michael asked. It was already a surreal conversation, so in for a penny, in for a pounding, he supposed.

Tony, bless him, was giving it some thought, far-away eyes on the sparse two-in-the-morning traffic, too. “Nah. I guess not.” 

They watched the night go by for a little while.

“What were you doing in Newcastle, anyway?”

Tony pursed his lips, fidgeting a little, and Michael grinned. “Ohhh, I see. Like that, is it. On the pull, were you? Not having much luck?”

“Not as much as you, you little twat,” Tony said, unimpressed, and Michael laughed, delighted. 

“What, you want a go?” And he was teasing really, but the look on Tony’s suddenly pale face was like he had been tied to a track with a train oncoming and Michael couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling up until he was almost sideways in his seat, holding on to his belly.

“I might not actually be your brother, but I might as well be, and not a poof and all,” Tony said primly, but then he laughed too, and Michael felt lighter than he had in years. Every time they caught each other’s eye, Michael would giggle and Tony would grin and shake his head, and it was good, even with his stomach rumbling its post-bender refrain, and the bus jostling them around.

When they finally walked up Alnwick street at arse o’clock in the morning, Tony steered them towards the Elliots’ door.

“Come on then,” he said, “I’ll make you some eggs to soak up the piss,” and Michael just shook his head and followed Tony into the kitchen, the warm, yellow light flickering on and settling over their shoulders in the silent, sleeping house.

### 1998

“The hell is this,” Jackie said quietly, sniffing at a breadstick in his hand and holding it out to study it like it was an alien artifact.

“I think it’s some kind of mayonnaise,” Tony said and crammed hors d'oeuvres into his mouth. Michael put his hand over his face. 

“It’s hummus,” he said, and Jackie and Tony both spun around together like synchronised swimmers.

“Christ on a cracker,” Jackie whispered, looking him up and down. Michael supposed he had been a little less obvious in the darkened theatre. The wings were much less atmospheric. Tony, disturbingly, was trying to smile with his mouth full of lettuce wraps.

“Cheese on a cracker,” Michael said, handing Jackie exactly that, taking the hummus-dipped breadstick away from him. “We’re going out for a proper meal in a minute, don’t you be filling up on finger food, Tony Elliot.”

They were backstage after Billy’s show had ended, waiting for Billy to de-swan and join them, Tony and Jackie looking as lost as ducklings amongst the graceful swans coming to nibble at carrot sticks and bites of prosciutto, and twice as cute in their nice suits and ties, turned out for Billy’s performance.

“Oh no,” Jackie said, “we don’t want to intrude,” but Tony was giving him a look and Jackie was giving him one back and it was almost like being home. Michael grinned, helplessly fond.

“You’re not intruding,” Michael said. “Billy wants you there. He wants to sit with you and feed you steak so you might as well not fill up on crackers and dips. He shouldn’t be long now. I’ll go and check on him.”

The dressing rooms were a familiar bustle, dancers in all states of undress, flowers, chatter, and whoops of success. The smell of sweat and dust and canvas hung in the air, and Michael made his way over to where Billy was stretching his legs out, beautifully turned calves and the sharp emboss of his ankles never ceasing to stun and intrigue. Michael could have looked at him for hours, just stretching that incredibly strong, lithe body.

“Almost ready, dancing boy?” Michael said quietly, and Billy looked up at him, relief and pleased pride on his face. He’d removed his make-up but liner clung to his lashes, debauching that clear, open face and darkening his blue-grey eyes. Michael was suddenly ravenous.

“Almost,” Billy said, straightening up, seeing the look in Michael’s eyes, and reeling him in by his waist. Billy kissed him, and Michael still wasn’t sure what had changed for Billy; maybe he’d just been put on the earth with a fast-track to succeed and until this goal had been achieved, nothing and no one could even compete for his attention. But then, one day last year, Billy had come home to visit, and Michael had also been home visiting, and something had passed between them that had only ever sparked one way, except it was a full circuit now. A complete connection. It had floored Michael. It floored him still.

Michael closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss, winding his arms around Billy’s wide shoulders. “It was amazing. You are amazing. Your dad cried,” Michael whispered into Billy’s ear, overcome himself at the memory he hoped would never fade, of Billy fulfilling the promise of his youth for his family, for his town, and most of all for himself.

Billy’s heart was beating wildly, and he puffed shivery, unsteady breaths into Michael’s neck for a moment, arms squeezing Michael vice-tight. Michael felt lightheaded with love.

Tony cleared his throat, and Billy startled, but didn’t let go. Michael smiled into Billy’s warm neck and clung a moment longer, before they let each other loose, turning around. Tony’s smile seemed bigger than his face.

“How long’ve you been standing there,” Billy asked, looking adorably self-conscious and worried. 

“Long enough. Thought you were taking us out for steaks,” Tony said, arms flung wide, looking between Billy and Michael like they held the answer to life, the universe, everything.

“You mean I’m taking Dad out for steaks,” Billy said, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but Michael just sucked his lip between his teeth, raised his eyebrow and reached for Billy’s hand.

“What about our Tony,” Michael said, giving Billy a knowing smile.

“What about him, he can have Mackers,” Billy said, and Michael let go of him just in time so he could bend and oof under his brother’s thick-armed, back-slapping embrace.

“You little shite,” Tony said, manhandling him into a hug that Michael knew would make a person feel small no matter how big they were now. “Our own William Elliot, a bloody ballet prodigy!”

“Not so little anymore,” Billy said, his voice a little watery. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother,” he said, shooting Michael an incredulous look over Tony’s shoulder. The knuckles of his hands were white with how hard he was hugging Tony to him. All Michael could do was shrug and marvel at how Billy was the same size as Tony now, even larger, somehow. Larger than life. 

And later, when they were all sitting around a messy table and he was laughing at some ridiculous story Tony had been telling, fanning his face and dabbing his eyes to stop his make-up from running, in his heart he felt a warm, yellow kitchen light around them all, settling on their shoulders and on his and Billy’s linked hands.

~Fin~


End file.
